


How the Winchesters Saved Christmas (and Christmas saved the Winchesters)

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Christmas, Christmas Crack, Christmas Wishes, Dean Winchester-centric, Fae & Fairies, First Time, Fluff, Fucked-up Fairy Tale, M/M, Mistletoe, Post-Episode: s08e10 Torn And Frayed, Season/Series 08, Wedding Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28660263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: Sam and Dean made their choice; they called their truce. Then a nighttime visitor appeared, with an offer of a once-in-a-lifetime hunt.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 19
Kudos: 96





	How the Winchesters Saved Christmas (and Christmas saved the Winchesters)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nisaki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nisaki/gifts).



> To my beloved. Four years ago today we had our first proper conversation. (Though, in a portent of things to come, you’d known the universe was plotting for us long before I did. 😛) I love you. Thank you for always believing in me. I hope you like this! 💜💜💜
> 
> Many thanks and season’s greetings to beta heroes samshinechester and crowroad. Hugs to you both!
> 
>  **Bonus playlist!** _[Misfit Toys: a mixtape to Dean from Santa](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLEiGQRh-pLuXlmMPDJTBgixaK4IDS-syr)_

Rufus’s ratty old couch shrieked as Dean bolted upright, drew his .45 from under the cushion. Not even fully awake yet, he dropped the safety and aimed it at whatever was making that… jingling?

“Ho-ho-hooo!” The fat man in the armchair next to him put his hands up. “I come in peace!”

Dean blinked. Silver moonlight shone through the cabin’s sheer curtains, lit up a red beanie with a white pom-pom, over a long white beard. Red quilted jacket, red-and-black checked flannel—Dean was pretty sure Sam had a shirt just like that—and old-timey black corduroy pants tucked into shiny boots.

“You have got to be kiddin’ me.” He drew back the gun’s hammer.

“Help me, Dean Winchester,” the creature said, “you’re my only hope.”

Quoting _Star Wars_ at him? “Get the fuck outta here. You ain’t Santa.”

“Oh no?” He wiggled mittened fingers and the coals in the fireplace flared. Soon, a crackling blaze was roaring.

“So you’re a he-witch playing Santa.” Dean kept his sights on the intruder, though he heard Sam stirring in the bunk behind him. “Or a demon in a branded meatsuit.”

“When you were nine years old,” the thing went on, “your father was gravely injured on a Halloween hunt.”

Dean flushed, thinking back. First Christmas Sammy would’ve really remembered, and they’d been locked down in a motel off the Interstate for weeks. Hunters checked on them, brought them food and cash, but—

Sam’s giant feet slapped the floor. “Dean?”

“Careful, Sammy, we got company.” He remembered a huge crate outside their door on Christmas morning. Four or five presents each and a little potted tree.

Their visitor kept talking, “John always thought a charity group had found out about you two, somehow.” He stroked his chin. “What was it now… Dinner from Boston Market… socks, boots, long underwear…”

“Some book Sam wanted,” Dean mumbled.

Santa—Dean was beginning to think, _maybe_ —smiled so wide his beard bristled. “You don’t remember what I brought _you_ , do you?”

Dean was trying.

“A pocketknife,” Sam said.

“Ho-ho-hooo!” Santa laughed. “That tree still grows, you know. The motel owner planted it in the spring.”

“Uh…” Sam eased down the steps, into the cabin’s main room. Sleep pants hung low—like, Dean could see pubes low. He bristled, thought of Sam walking around like that in front of dog-girl. “Are you…?”

“That’s what he claims,” Dean grumbled.

“Like…” Sam sat beside Dean on the couch. “Santa for real. Kris Kringle.”

“Ah!” Santa said. “That’s actually my brother, Belsnickel.” He shook his head. “You humans have clumsy tongues.”

“You’re not really buying this, Sammy.”

“I mean.” Sam laid the soft, pleading eyes on him. “Is it so hard to believe—”

“In Santa? Come on!” Dean eyed the stranger. “I’ll hear you out, old man, but I’m gonna need coffee, at least. I guess you’re gonna want, what? Cocoa or something?”

“Honestly, Dean?” Santa hooked a bushy white eyebrow. “I could use a beer.”

“Well, fuck me,” Dean said. “Me too.”

“You’re a very special human, Dean.” Santa tipped back his beer. His face lit up and he inspected the label. Blue eyes twinkled in pink cheeks. “You escaped from Oberon.”

Sam snickered. Dean frog-punched his thigh. They were crowded at Rufus’s rickety dining table, Dean straddling his chair back. Sam wore the same face as the first time he’d met Cas—moon-eyed, way too trusting.

Dean flinched. _Fuckin’ Cas._

“Sam can see me now because I permit it. But you, Dean. Your time in Avalon means you can always see my kind.”

“Oh, right,” Dean said, “because elves are a type of fairy, right?”

“We are _not_ elves!” Santa thumped the table and Dean jumped. “We are _dwarfs!_ I am jolly, rotund, and industrious. What part of that says _elf_ to you?”

“Uh…” Dean shot Sam a look, like, _what the fuck?_ “I’m… sorry?”

“It’s…” Santa’s face had turned an alarming red. “It’s anti-dwarf propaganda! My asshole cousins can’t stand to…” His eyes widened as he trailed off. “Ho-ho-hoo, forgive me.”

“Hang on.” Sam faced Dean, jostled into him. “You can see all fairies? Like, all the time?”

“Not everywhere.” Dean shrugged. “Mostly in the woods. There’s… clusters, you know. I usually just try to hustle us on through those places. Figured out it was best if I…” Whistling, he passed his hand in front of his face. “Y’know.”

Sam gaped at him.

“Dude, I thought you knew!”

“I…” Sam ducked his chin. “I guess I thought it had worn off.”

“Nope.”

“And it’s why,” Santa grew serious, “you’re the best chance we have, Dean.”

“Who’s we?” he asked against a growing knot in his stomach.

“My brothers,” Santa said. “Me, Sinterklaas, Ded Moroz, Father Christmas.” He winced. “We’re quadruplets. La Befana is our only sister; Belsnickel—Kris Kringle—” He spread his fingers, tipped his hand from side to side. “He’s kind of a black sheep. Krampus is the eldest.”

Dean re-ran the list in his head. “Wait. You’re… the Seven Dwarfs?”

Santa nodded.

“Except one of you’s a chick.”

“And none of us are particularly bashful, dopey, or sneezy,” Santa said drily. “Clumsy tongues, you humans.” He tapped his temple. “Feeble minds. Can’t keep a story straight.”

Everyone sipped their beers.

“We Seven struck a deal with the hunter St. Nicholas,” Santa went on, “to take the power of our ancestor, Joulupukki.”

“What’s a YOLO-bookie?” Dean asked.

“The ancient one.” Santa took a long swig and a deep breath. “Hardship. Deprivation. Winter itself.”

Outside, the wind moaned in the trees, blew snow pattering against the window panes.

“It’s killing us,” Santa began softly, eyes on the rug. “Trying to retake its power. It’s already murdered Father Christmas and Krampus.”

“I am so sorry,” Sam said, full of empathy.

Dean squirmed, nudged into Sam’s side. Felt the flinch Sam tried to stifle.

Santa looked up. “I can bring them back.” He punched his palm. “I _have_ to! If Joulupukki wins, if he kills the Seven, he’ll unleash a new Ice Age.”

“Damn,” Dean said. “Nothing like a little pressure.”

“Please,” Santa looked Dean in the eye, “Help me save my brothers. Help me save the world.”

“All right.” Wasn’t like Dean could brush off actual Santa Claus. “But I ain’t rollin’ without Sammy here, and I ain’t wearin’ no candy-cane tights.”

Fresh-fallen snow drifted and sparkled off the trees, off Rufus’s rooftop above. Gusty breeze sent icy crystals spinning through the night. Bathed in the light of a bright half-moon, Dean shivered. Tucked his gloved hands in his armpits while Santa—he still wasn’t entirely accustomed to that—walked him through the sleigh’s operation.

“They supply the flight magic.” Santa gestured towards the reindeer. Or rather, the eight fucking mammoth moose-things hooked to the reins.

“I thought they were supposed to be tiny,” Dean said. They were nine feet tall at the shoulder if they were an inch, each with a six-foot rack of antlers.

Santa nodded. “Smallest of their kind.”

One of them swung its great big giant moose head to the side; it passed above Dean like something out of _Jurassic Park_. The jingle bells sewn to its harness did nothing to cut down the menace.

Dean backed up, trekked a wide circle around the team. “Can they fight?” Figured he should scout his assets.

“They’ll defend themselves, but they’re far too precious to risk in combat.”

“Fair.”

Santa waved his hand, and a set of stairs appeared to freeze right out of the air, connecting the sleigh to the ground. He climbed up and untied a bright green sack. “These are the wishes.” He tossed something that sparkled in the moonlight.

Dean caught it on the fly. A small box—square, like a gift from a jewelry store—glittering in silvery but multicolored iridescent paper, tied with a shimmering white bow.

“Christmas wishes!” Santa boomed, climbed down. “All the children’s heart’s desires!”

“W-wishes?”

“We don’t bring toys, Dean. We bring so much more.” Santa slapped his back and strode off. His shiny black boots crunched the snow as he headed back toward the house.

Comet—Dean thought the one closest to him was Comet—leaned down and stuck its huge moose nose right in Dean’s face. Pillars of steaming breath rose off its nostrils. Dean slipped the box in an inside pocket and backed away slowly, eight or ten paces. He spun around and hustled after Santa Claus.

Inside, the cabin smelled like peppermint, gingerbread, and pine. Santa’s elves— _er, dwarfs_ —swarmed over everything like a reverse termite infestation: reinforcing the walls and floors. Dusting, scrubbing, and mopping. Hoisting a tree and stringing up ropes of LEDs. 

“Is all this necessary?” Dean shouted over the Elvis Presley Christmas record playing at full blast. At least nobody was wearing candy cane tights, he was relieved to see.

“Coming through!” said a dwarf carrying fistfuls of tinsel as she bustled past.

They seemed to be all ages. Dressed in work clothes: jeans and overalls. Lots of red and green: striped turtlenecks and snowflake-patterned sweaters. Sock caps with ear flaps, tassels and pom-poms.

Sam’s head appeared at the top of the basement stairs. “Hey!” He spotted Dean and Santa, picked his way through the chaos in the room. Stopped just out of arm’s reach. “This is so cool.” Look on his face reminded Dean of the one time they’d hung around the same town long enough for Sam to compete in a science fair.

Dean eyed him. “Someone’s in the spirit.”

A woman’s voice broke through the chaos and the record player quieted. Dwarfs paused at their projects and gave her their absolute attention.

“The missus?” Dean nudged Santa.

“Nooo-ho-ho-hoo! That’s Snegurochka.” Like it was so obvious. “My niece.”

Dean wondered just which kind of niece. He didn’t know a lot about dwarf beauty standards, but he’d clock her a solid eight. She had a kind of anime vibe: long, straight, silver hair cinched in a messy ponytail. Impossibly blue eyes. Dangerous curves, even bundled up in blue coveralls. A white tool belt hung from her hips, full of hardware Dean could not identify.

“Snegu…” Sam repeated, “Snow… White?”

“Snow _Maiden_ ,” said the… lady-dwarf? Dwarfette? Dean cringed. That’d get his ass kicked. “Nice guess, though.” Pretty Russian accent. “You can call me Snow.” She flashed Sam a smile.

“Clumsy tongues,” Santa muttered.

“You could lay off with that, y’know,” Dean said.

Snow issued orders and Santa’s dwarfs scurried.

“You-uh, want to see downstairs?” Sam asked.

Dean shrugged his agreement, bobbed and weaved across the cabin, followed Sam down to a scene out of a St. Jude’s telethon. Tables in rows, each held two old-school phones, with curly cords and rotary dials, red and white and black and green. Dwarfs stacked notepads, piled up pens. Light strings streaked between the rafters and snaked down around support posts, already operational. They didn’t blink so much as cycle, psychedelic rainbows in a marching-ants progression.

“Seriously,” Dean grumbled. “What’s with the decorations?” Kind of made his head spin. “I’m all for getting into the season, don’t get me wrong, but… don’t we… you know… have shit to do?”

“Oh!” Sam’s eyes widened. “The lights are tachyon inhibitors!”

Dean shook his head. “Tacky what, now?”

Shifting colors lit Sam’s face. “So get this.” He grimaced. “Uh…” Led the way to a worktable that had always been in the room, just never waxed to a high shine before. “You know how you’re gonna be in a time bubble in the sleigh, right?”

“Right,” Dean said with more confidence than he felt. Most of that time-bubble talk had made his eyes glaze over.

Sam pointed to a console, anchored by some kind of radio rig. “Well if we’re gonna run mission control, we’ll need a bubble too. So we can sync up with you and send messages.”

That made sense. “So this is what, like… timey-wimey, guts of the TARDIS stuff?”

The smile Sam gave him made his neck itch. “Yeah, pretty much.” He turned around, leaned against the table and stretched his long legs, crossed them at the ankles. “So-uh. I don’t want to question your bravery or anything—”

Dean bulled up.

“—but you almost shit your pants the last time we flew. I had to crush up a Xanax in your lunch just to get you to the airport.”

“Okay, one, you roofied me?” Dean showed his palms to the heavens.

Sam hooked one unapologetic shoulder.

“Two,” Dean pulled a sour face, “planes are _completely different_. I am unarmed, there’s a sleep-deprived, bourgeois dick at the wheel, and a hundred other stressed-out fuckers breathing up my air.”

“Bourgeois.” Sam’s lips quirked.

Dean flipped him the bird. “This is _Santa_ , Sam. If I can’t trust him to drive, I can’t trust anyone.”

Sam squinted. Shadow of a dimple threatened but retreated. “We—” He cleared his throat. “We’ve got every hunter we know out looking for omens,” Sam explained. “The tip line rings here.”

“So you can relay intel from the phones to the sleigh.” Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “I dig it, man. We’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

Sam’s jaw flexed; Dean couldn’t read the expression. He could hardly breathe. Sam turned away from him and he let go. “Hey.” He slapped Sam’s back.” There’s gotta be some eggnog around here somewhere. You in?”

Snow Maiden made her way downstairs. Signaled Sam and headed their way.

“Nah,” Sam shook his head. “I’m gonna stay here and—”

“Yeah-yeah, nerd it up.” Dean marched for the stairs. When he glanced back, Sam and Snow had their heads together, reading a scroll. Dean clenched his teeth. Sam looked up, caught his eyes before he turned away. Dean forced a smirk. _Kid’s worried about me_.

Snow handed Dean a silver thermos, ordered, “Drink this,” with all the affability of Colonel Klebb. 

Dean sniffed, spicy hot chocolate. He pulled out his flask and grinned. “You-uh. Mind if I make this Irish?”

She smacked the flask clean out of his hand.

“Hey!”

“Do not adulterate the cocoa.” She scowled at him. “This will keep you warm and alive at altitude.”

“Oh.” Dean blinked. “Well. Copy that.”

Ded Moroz—Grandfather Frost; Dean promptly named him “Gramps”—and Befana came to see them off.

“ _Fa' attenzione_ ,” Befana patted Santa on the cheek. “And you,” she pointed a finger at Dean, “don’t fail him.”

“No, ma’am.” Dean saluted, made for the ice steps leading to the sleigh, somehow not as slippery as they should have been.

Minutes later, they were streaking through the afternoon sky, north and east toward sunset. Cozy, in spite of their height and speed. Leather seats, wood trim, all luxury. Dean sipped on his cocoa.

The radio looked and worked just like an old CB. Microphone on a spiral cord, straight out of _Smokey and the Bandit_. Dean grabbed the mic and pressed the button. “Rudolph, to the Island of Misfit Toys,” he intoned. “You got your ears on, Sammy?”

Testy, “Yes, Dean—”

“That is not our handle.” Dean elbowed Santa. “Can you believe the disrespect?”

Sam was saying, “—and Befana are taking positions. What’s your ETA?”

Santa pulled on the reins. The sleigh slowed, swept in a wide arc and began to sink.

“I think we’re here.”

“Good.” Sam’s voice crackled. Dean could hear Bing Crosby crooning in the background. “We’ll try to keep the path clear for you. I’ll be in touch on the hour or sooner.”

“Ten-four, Misfit Toys. Rudolph out.” Dean hung the microphone on its hook. “So. What’s next?”

Santa’s reindeer descended toward a small town celebrating Christmas Eve. Last-minute shoppers packed the drugstore parking lot. Smoke wafted from chimneys and lights shone around eaves, sparkled off icicles. The sleigh stopped ten, maybe fifteen feet above the rooftops. Santa tied the reins, shouted something Scandinavian-sounding, and hoisted a sack. “Watch my back and stay out of my way.”

“Yessir.” Dean could handle that.

Supposedly, they could just walk around among people, invisible, because _blah-blah time shift,_ and _blah-blah oscillation_. Sam and Snow Maiden made a geek tandem that had sent Dean running for the snack table.

The ice stairs reappeared with a wave of Santa’s hand. On the edge of town, in a vacant lot, at the end of a quiet street. Too quiet. Still as a painting. Even the snowflakes hung suspended. Not a barking dog, not a rumbling engine.

Santa approached the last house on the block and produced a set of lockpicks that glinted in the colorful window lights.

“Are you shittin’ me?” Dean asked. “What happened to the chimney?”

“Oh if you want to slide down that thing, go nuts,” Santa said.

“You guys don’t actually…”

Santa shook his head. “Nah.” His picks clicked in the deadbolt. “That whole rumor started after a bad night for Belsnickel in the wine.”

“I can relate,” Dean muttered.

Four stockings hung across the mantelpiece, over a fire frozen in time. Santa bypassed the socks marked _Mom_ and _Dad_ , traced the name _Tim_ with a finger. “One child here.”

Dean blinked. “What about Molly?” The name on the fourth stocking.

Santa shot a hooked eyebrow back over his shoulder. “Molly’s a husky.”

“Ah.” Dean should have guessed, from the embroidered pork chop and fire hydrant.

Santa opened his sack and drew out another one of those sparkly little boxes, set it under the Christmas tree and stepped back. “Watch.”

In a minute, the shimmering white bow unfurled and the iridescent color of the paper seemed to come to life. The box vanished in a puff of glitter that clung to the tree trunk, climbed and spread over every branch, settled into every needle. Santa turned to go.

“Hold up, that’s it?” Dean had been expecting a little more, razzle-dazzle.

“We don’t even have to be here for this part.” Santa shrugged. “I’m just showing off.”

Dean stared.

“Well, come on,” Santa nodded toward the door.

Dean followed him out, back to the sleigh. Up the ice stairs which disappeared behind him as he climbed. He settled in, and Santa took the reins and pushed a tape in the cassette deck. Hard distortion guitar blared, Santa shouted, and the reindeer took flight. They circled and ascended; Santa barely had to steer. They came to a stop high above the town square. Santa stood, and Dean peeked over the side. Looked like a Christmas postcard down there, quaint houses under snowbound roofs.

Santa opened up a sack and dumped its contents. Tiny boxes glittered in the moonlight, spun and darted off. Fascinated, Dean watched as Christmas wishes dashed down chimneys, through air vents—some even passed straight through the walls to, Dean imagined, settle under Christmas trees all over town. Others zipped into the night; their sparkles shrank and vanished.

Santa shot Dean a smirk. “Cool, right?”

Dean stared. “So they just…”

“Find the children,” Santa said. “Come on. Much to do!” He settled in his seat.

Dean sat too, amazed. Mostly that the job could still amaze him. “What happens now?”

“Hm?”

“With the wishes. They, what? Transform into the presents the kid really wants?”

“Oh-ho-ho, no. I told you Dean, we dwarfs see to children’s heart’s desires.”

Dean spread his hands.

“A lonely boy makes an important friend. A frightened girl learns to be brave. A big brother finds the patio door unlocked, gifts stacked a yard deep, at his rich jerk classmate’s house…”

Dean squirmed in his seat. Cranked up the Christmas tape and pointedly ignored Santa’s arch expression.

They hit county seats and farm towns, scattering packages all across vast snowy landscapes. In the cities, sometimes Santa went block-by-block—carpeting apartment buildings sackload-by-sackload. Santa tossed empties into the back, but the pile never seemed to shrink. Dean kept his eyes peeled; Sam radioed updates. _All clear. All clear. All clear._ No Joulupukki omens anywhere, even as Befana and Ded Moroz made big, baity shows of dwarven magic.

“Should I be getting worried yet?” Dean asked, after the umpteenth, _we’ve got nothin’_ conversation.

“No-ho-ho.” Santa hoisted a sack. Hesitated. “Would you like to?” He offered it to Dean.

“Seriously?”

Santa nodded. “Please. There’s nothing to it.”

Dean untied the thick red drawstring. “You’re sure.”

Santa egged him on, and Dean shook out the sack. His chest got tight like the fucking Grinch, watching the wishes descend on the town like a firefly swarm. He was Oz, the Great and Powerful—except, that guy was a scam. Dean thought about hunters’ kids, missing their folks on Christmas Eve. Santa patted his back.

“I chose this place for a reason, Dean.”

Dean eyed him. Santa called to the team; they struck a lazy pace.

“Look.” Santa pointed.

On the outskirts, Dean saw three tiny boxes plunge through a window in a rundown motel. “Are they… y’know. Home alone?”

“For now, yes,” Santa sighed. “But!” He caught Dean’s gaze, held it. “Trust the wishes.”

 _Sure_ , Dean thought. _Because_ _trust is totally my strong suit_.

The sleigh’s CB lit up. Dean turned down the music and grabbed the mic.

“This is Rudolph,” Dean said. “Island of Misfit Toys, repeat your last.”

“Dean,” Sam’s huff transmitted loud and clear, “will you quit fucking around? We have a sighting.” Santa sat straighter in his seat. Dean absently touched the double-barrel strapped to his thigh. Sam crackled on. “Befana’s the closest; she’s on an intercept course.”

Santa nodded at the microphone; Dean held the button for him while he hauled on the reins. “Sam,” Santa asked, “has she told you where she’s driving it?”

“Not yet,” Sam said. “Grandfather’s en route; they’ll decide together.”

Santa nodded. Dean took back the mic. “Ten-four, Sammy, keep us posted.”

“Will do.” Static hissed. “Over and out.”

“So we headed that way?” Dean hung up the microphone.

Santa shook his head. “We keep delivering until they pin it down.”

“Can they handle that?”

“Ho-ho-hooo,” Santa bellowed. “You’d better believe it, kid. My sister and brother are the Witch and the Wizard of Winter.”

“Ah. Brought out the big guns.”

Santa flashed a sad smile. “Indeed. And Sinterklaas and Belsnickel have their hands full…” He trailed off. Dean winced. _Covering for my dead brothers_ , Santa didn’t need to say.

Dean coughed. “Hey-uh. Tell me more about this Joulupukki.” Honestly, he should’ve asked sooner; he’d just been way out of his depth the last twenty-four hours.

“It is ancient.” The reindeer descended. “We Seven are old, but it is beyond time.” They were coming up on another little village. “Ruthless. Almost an animal mind, a force of nature.”

“Yeah,” Dean got up, grabbed a sack. “You said that. Winter itself.”

“A goat-beast.” Santa opened up the sack and Dean dumped it. Santa went on, “Humans defeated and sealed the thing at the end of the last Ice Age. No one knows how.”

“No shit.” Dean found comfort in that, hunters going all the way back.

“Nearly every culture in the Northern world has its stories.” They settled back and were on their way. “Fauns and satyrs, Pan, Baphomet… your species’ collective memory of that great battle.”

“Huh.” That made sense. “And how do the Seven Dwarfs fit in? You said it’s your ancestor?”

“Indeed,” Santa said. “We Seven noticed its prison began to decay, some… thousand years ago? We tried holding it back, but,” he shook his head, “we were sure to lose eventually.”

“So what’d you do?”

“In the end, St. Nicholas opened the humans’ prison, and we seized the ancient one’s power.”

Dean chewed on that. “But you didn’t get it evenly,” he reasoned, if there was a witch and a wizard.

Santa lifted a mittened finger. “That’s correct.” He shook his head. “Poor Krampus, he took too much, too fast. It’s why he looks…”

Dean knew. Krampus was a goat-man.

“He’s the eldest, I told you. He insisted he had to go first.”

“In case things went sideways.” Dean could respect that.

Sam’s voice broke in. “Dean? Do you copy?”

He snatched the mic. “Rudolph here, Island of—”

Santa frowned.

“Uh. Whatcha got, Sammy?”

“Wilds of Alaska.” Reedy, through the CB’s speaker, “Site Delta. You have the coordinates?”

Santa hauled on the reins and the sleigh swooped towards the west. He threw a thumbs up, and Dean said, “Yup. Snow briefed the reindeer before we left.”

“Be careful, Dean.”

“That’s the biggest ten-four of the night, man. Catch you on the flipside.”

Dean double-checked his weapons, extra ammo. Twelve-gauge cold-iron slugs, and his little secret: pocketfuls of loose Red Hots he could throw around, cause a distraction. They’d incapacitate his allies, so those were emergency-use only, but he was super grateful Sam had thought of them.

They arrived at a battle on pause. Moonlit shadows stretched and snow sparkled. Joulupukki towered twenty feet above a wind-scoured plain. Dry vines and evergreen boughs, woven in a humanoid shape, three feet across at the shoulders. Goat legs. Giant, twisted horns on its goat head, thrown back, frozen in a blood-solidifying roar, even without sound.

Santa drew them closer. Hovering, captured in time, Befana harried Joulupukki’s head and shoulders—riding a no-shit broomstick, volley of icy spikes arcing from her hand. Gramps’s troika sled approached from the south. He launched fireballs as Snegurochka—Dean squinted—stood behind him and laid down covering fire with a Kalashnikov.

“As soon as I sync up to their oscillation,” Santa said, “it’s gonna be on. You ready?”

Dean cracked his neck. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Help my siblings get it on the ground. I’ll get its head off.”

“Simple,” Dean said. “I like simple.” He unsnapped his various holsters. Shotguns, two in a belt and one on his thigh. “Let’s hit it.”

Santa landed on the run with a whoomp and a spray of white. He stuck his fist up in the air and all hell broke loose. Deafening. Snow Maiden squeezed off burst after burst from her rifle, sent splinters flying off Joulupukki’s limbs. Gramps pulled on the reins and his three white plough horses cut hard, swung the sled around and to a stop with a shower of snow. Befana’s ice spikes landed, one out of five, but they shattered, barely scratched it.

Dean stood up. Santa pulled a wide arc, still decelerating. Dean leveled his shotgun, gauged their movement, fired.

Missed. But his second barrel took the son of a bitch square in the chest. Joulupukki yowled as the moonlight shined, through-and-through.

“Ha-ha!” Dean yanked his backup out of his thigh holster.

Santa’s sleigh rumbled to a stop. Joulupukki turned for them, reared back with a ropey arm—

Flames engulfed the creature’s head as one of Gramps’s fireballs connected. Twenty feet up, Joulupukki thrashed its antlers. _Whoosh!_ Another fireball, and _pop-pop-pop_. Snow’s gun. The creature roared, turned on them. Dean nailed it with another iron slug—through the knee; that made it stagger. Gramps targeted Dean’s bullet holes for fire. Howling, swiping blindly, Joulupukki blundered toward Santa’s sleigh. Snow and Gramps lured it back.

Santa conjured the ice steps. “Go-go-go!” He ordered. Thumbed towards the reindeer. “They’ve gotta get outta here!”

“Copy that!” Dean paused at the top of the steps. “Hey! Can you make these a slide?”

“Ho-ho-hooo!” Santa laid a finger aside of his nose. “Very good thinking!”

Dean tobogganed on his ass to the snow below. Santa hit the ground beside him and gave a signal. Poof, the sleigh vanished.

“How many more tricks you got up them sleeves?” Dean asked sourly.

“Just the two.” Santa patted his shoulder. “Time and temperature. Look.” And all at once the reindeer popped back into view, circling above at a safe height. “I just sped us up.”

All around them, fire and gunfire, ice and snow, stuck still as a painting. Santa drew a five-foot sword with a wavy blade. Dean raised his eyebrows.

Santa’s mouth pressed so tight it vanished underneath his moustache. “My brother’s.” He patted the flat side, almost as wide as his hand at the hilt. “Frozen essence of flame.”

“So-uh.” Dean pointed at the Joulupukki, locked in time.

“It’ll take him apart piece by piece.”

“Right on! Let’s—”

Creaking, then, and the Joulupukki snapped to life.

“Shit,” Santa said, and Dean’s jaw dropped. “He’s figuring it out!” Santa pushed both palms toward the beast and it froze again. “This way!” They ducked to one side just before Joulupukki broke loose, slammed its needle-covered hand in the spot they’d just stood.

Jerky, stop-start as the dwarfs’ time magic failed. Santa took a new tack. Disappeared from Dean’s side and popped in, swiped Jouluppuki’s ankle with his sword, and popped away again.

“Oh, that kicks so much ass,” Dean muttered. He took stock of his situation while he reloaded his guns. Grandpa Frost and Snow caught on next, sped up to catch Dean and unloaded fire and iron.

Joulupukki paused. Not time-hexed. One great spindly hand swatted idly at Befana like she was a fly. She zipped and darted, rained ice down. It cocked its head, and Dean could swear it sniffed.

Orange, glittering eyes landed on him. Joulupukki roared.

“Uh-oh,” Dean muttered. Raised his weapon and fired, wide of its head. He backed up, quick as he could on slick footing. Second shot clipped the creature’s shoulder. Bafana closed, ran interference while Dean spun around and put speed on. Mist gathered at his feet. Swirled, built and climbed. He looked back toward the thick of things and he couldn’t see shit. Whiteout blizzard whirled around flickering fireballs and muzzle flash. He plunged back in.

Up close, he could kind of make out Santa’s bright red coat, vanishing and reappearing to take potshots at the monster’s ankles. Its left leg, the one Dean shot through the knee, was almost whittled to a peg.

And then Dean was airborne. Cutting pain in his armpits said Joulupukki had him by his overcoat. Dean kicked, stretched his hands for the sky and squirmed until he dropped out of his sleeves.

“Owww,” Dean tumbled, groaned, most of his wind knocked out and snow all up in his clothes. No shotguns. Red Hots gone wherever his coat went. He still had his Colt in a shoulder holster, iron boot knife. “Fuck.”

He rolled to his feet, tried to smack the snow off, pointless. He’d have to thank Snow for that cocoa; he should be frozen solid. He looked around, spotted her driving the troika, rifle on her back. Short of ammo, Dean guessed. Saving the last couple of mags, it’s what he’d have done. Snow and Gramps kept Joulupukki’s eyes on them, for the moment. Santa pressed his attack while Befana wheeled above. Dean drew his pistol, looked for a clean shot—

Joulupukki disappeared. Time-jumped, Dean realized, when it reappeared next to the troika and smashed it sideways. _Fucker’s getting smarter,_ Dean thought. Gramps’s horses bolted. Snow sailed through the air, hit the ground and rolled. Befana buzzed the creature’s head before she time-skipped away. Joulupukki howled and barreled after her. Dean sprinted for the troika. Gramps was pinned under there. _Hang on, old timer_.

It didn’t look good. Blood—black in the moonlight—pooled and steamed, soaked through the dwarf’s thick robes and froze into gory slush. No breath-plume rose from Gramps’s mouth. Snow Maiden trudged towards the wreckage, arm tucked to her chest at a wrong angle. Looked to be nursing her ribs too.

“ _Dédushka_ ,” she whimpered, fell to her knees. Tears glistened, froze and sparkled on her cheeks.

“I couldn’t—” Dean stammered. “I am so sorry.” He glanced towards the fight, which they were losing. Befana was grounded, throwing ice, no sign of her broom. Santa dashed through the snow, weapon strapped to his back and hands extended. Joulupukki flickered. They were in a time fight, Dean realized.

Otherworldly blue eyes rose to meet his. “Kill that bastard,” Snow snarled, Bond-girl-villain vicious in her Russian accent.

Dean nodded. “Count on it.” He holstered his sidearm and broke in a full sprint for the fighting front. Santa shouted something, lost in a sudden swirl of wind that peppered Dean with icy crystals. Joulupukki roared. Dean scanned for cover—too late. The creature locked its blazing stare on Dean and closed in two ten-foot strides.

Santa drew his sword and plunged after it. Befana held her fire, for which Dean was mighty grateful when Joulupukki scooped him up again. Great long creaking fingers curled around his waist. Squeezed his air out. Lifted him, pinned his right arm tight. Dean punched with his left, wailed on the woody fingers to no effect. Drool fell and froze as Joulupukki lolled its tongue out. Raised Dean to its gaping mouth. Dean scrabbled for his pistol, no joy. He twisted. Reached. Longshot. He’d have to be Elastigirl to get to that fuckin’—

Something inside his breast pocket poked his arm. Hope blossomed.

 _That is worth a shot_.

Careful. Dean removed the kaleidoscope wish box and tucked it in his fist. “Hey, asshole!” Open-sewer monster breath brought tears to his eyes, but he bucked up. Shoved his wish between its needle teeth. “Merry Christmas!”

Glitter spread out from its mouth, down its neck and torso, arms and legs. Its grip slacked and it stumbled. Dean dropped ten feet to the snow, again.

“Motherfucker,” he wheezed.

Santa and Befana started chanting in a language Dean didn’t recognize. Joulupukki lurched, shimmered with wish mojo. Frost sprung up, climbed its calves. Cracking ice sounds dogged its labored steps. Dean rolled clear, and—nursing bruises and a twisted ankle—hobbled for the nearest cover: Gramps’s troika. Joulupukki shrieked and staggered after him. He glanced back. Full-on _Terminator 2_ , the beast ripped off one of its own feet after it froze to the ground. It teetered. Bellowed.

Dean dove behind the troika and the _rat-a-tat-tat_ of assault rifle hammered his ears. Snow screamed, emptied her magazine and shot the frost-brittle Joulupukki to smithereens with one arm. The creature hit all fours. Frost spread up its forearms, circled its neck. Snow reloaded and Dean whooped and joined in, burned a clip of .45 caliber cold iron into the crumbling giant. Santa sprinted in, sword high, and decapitated Joulupukki with a running strike. Its head tumbled. Vast branching antlers kicked up snow. Santa kept hacking. Wrists, elbows. Little left of what they'd fought but twisted, frost-caked vines.

Snow got Dean’s attention. “Give me a hand with them?” Gramps’s massive white plough horses were edging their way back towards the troika. “They can help us turn it upright.”

Dean put aside his aches and pains and followed her lead. She barked orders at him and murmured in Russian to the horses. Meanwhile, Santa piled up Joulupukki parts and Befana wrapped her fallen brother’s body.

With a creak, a heave from the horses, what could only be Slavic curses and one almighty crash, they righted the troika.

“Let’s load up!” Snow gingerly dusted her hands.

They filled the sled with Joulupukki’s dismembered corpse.

“I’ll meet you back at the North Pole, uncle,” Snow said, gathering the troika’s reins.

“We’ll have him back in no time.” Santa patted her cheek. “All of them.”

Snow nodded. Grim and determined. Dean dug this chick.

“Rudolph, to the Island of Misfit Toys,” Dean said on the radio. “Mission accomplished, Misfit Toys. I say again, mission accomplished.”

“Dean!” Sam crackled back. Cheers of dwarfs erupted in the background. “Are you all right?” Sam continued, “Were there… casualties?”

Santa grimaced; Dean gave him a reassuring nod.

“Ded Moroz went down. Snow’s pretty busted up, but they’ll be okay.” Dean would be hopping on one foot for a couple of days, but he’d live. He let go of the button and asked Santa, “They will, right?”

“Absolutely.” Santa nodded at the mic. Dean held it up for him. “Sam?”

“Go ahead.”

“Please inform my dwarfs they can stand down. Snegurochka is en route to the workshop.”

“Will do,” Sam acknowledged. “And-uh, when you see her, please tell Snow it was a pleasure working with her.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Held down the button.

“Of course, Sam!” Santa boomed.

“Anything else we need to know?” Dean followed.

“Negative,” Sam said. “Anything else for us?”

Santa gestured and Dean said, “That is a negative, Misfit Toys,” and, “Hey. Good work tonight.”

“Yeah. You too.” Silence. Sam held the button down another couple of seconds.

“Rudolph out.” Dean cracked his neck. Shut the CB off.

Santa turned to him. “I suppose you’ll want to head back now.”

“I dunno.” Something in Sam’s hesitation said he’d want to Have a Talk when Dean got back. “Safe’s better than sorry, ain’t it?”

“Oh-ho-ho-okay,” Santa jiggled the entire sleigh. “What’s going on with you and Sam?”

“Nothing.” Dean crossed his arms.

“Is that so?” Santa eyed him.

“We…” Dean cringed. “We hit a rough patch recently.” He grit his teeth. “But we’re re-committed.” Damn, he wished he’d have thought of a different way to say that.

“And yet, you’re still sore,” Santa observed.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Santa laughed softly. “Of course not.”

High above the clouds they zoomed.

“Sam left me for dead.” Dean swallowed. “More or less.”

“You fell into Purgatory, yes.” Santa nodded. “And escaped there too; you’re a legend.”

“Well it took a freakin’ year!” Dean huffed. “I was out there without Cas, with this vampire selling me a fairy tale, and all I had to go on was knowing Sam was coming. That him and that big brain and that hard head wouldn’t stop until he’d got me out.”

And once he’d opened his mouth, everything uncorked. He spilled the beans about the last few months, about Benny and dog-girl. About Sam being such a fucking hypocrite he got Martin _killed_.

“Why do you think,” Santa asked, “Sam distrusts Benny?”

“Oh, I don’t think he distrusts him; I think he resents him. Benny is the only reason I’m not rotting in that hole, and Sam knows it.” Dean ground his teeth. “You would think that Sam, _Give-the-Monster-a-Chance_ Winchester would show a little more gratitude, less attitude.”

Santa’s sleigh decelerated. Looped around the outskirts of a sleepy village. Clusters of lights shone silver, purple, and gold.

He put Dean to work distributing wishes. “Have you asked him?”

Dean emptied a sack and watched the sparkling packages scatter. “Asked who what now?”

“Asked Sam,” Santa said. “What he thought happened to you?”

It had seemed pretty fucking obvious to Dean: gank a Purgatory native, get sucked in with it.

“I’ve been alive for millennia.” Santa snapped the reins as Dean took his seat. “I can count on one hand, the number of humans who’ve landed in Purgatory.”

Dean squirmed. “Okay, but Kevin—”

“Now, now. Don’t go standing on your young prophet’s shoulders and acting like it’s the moral high ground.” Santa raised a mittened finger. “If Sam _had_ rescued Kevin, and _then_ quit hunting, would you be any less angry?”

 _No_ , Dean didn’t say. “Listen. I agreed to come out here and gank Mr. Freeze, not get psychoanalyzed.”

“No-ho-ho. Of course not!” Santa boomed.

“Least of all from a clown who supposedly grants kids’ wishes, but bailed on me and Sammy in fucking grade school.”

“Bailed on you?” Santa shot him a look. “Tell me, Dean, what happened on the Christmas when you were ten?”

Dean had to think: _’89; Sammy was six_. They’d… celebrated at Bobby’s. Dad even took them to cut a tree.

Santa patted Dean’s shoulder. “Yes, I only had to intervene so directly that one time. Because, Dean, your Christmas wish has always been to be with Sam. Safe.”

The jolly old bastard had him there.

“We’re coming into Montana now,” Santa said. “Are you sure I can’t drop you off?”

Dean thought about Sam, all alone in that shitty cabin once Santa’s dwarfs cleared out. “Yeah, all right,” he agreed. “If you’re sure you’ve got this.”

“I’m sure.” Santa called to the reindeer and they adjusted course.

Smoke curled from the cabin’s chimney, swirled in their wake when Santa shut down the time-mojo. Dean squinted over the side. Steady light shone from the study. Geekboy up reading. Ice steps formed from the slow-falling snow. Dean stood.

“Wait.” Santa drew two sparkling wishes from under his seat. “This is against the rules for grown-ups, but… as a thank-you.” Both boxes zipped off from the sleigh and straight down Rufus’s chimney. “Merry Christmas, Dean.” Santa slapped his back.

“Merry Christmas, old man.” Dean slung his weapons duffle over his shoulder, and headed towards Sam.

Santa vanished just as soon as Dean’s feet touched ground. He limped a trail in the snow up to Rufus’s porch, caught a peek through the frosty window. Reading in a rocking chair beside the hearth. Roaring fire, dancing candles. Sam sipped from a steaming mug under a flawless fir the dwarfs must have left, decked in silver and glimmering with wish-light. Sam’s hair fell around his face. Sloped nose in silhouette wrinkled in concentration. Lip in his teeth. And that crease, in between his eyebrows. Sam put his book down. Yawned and stretched and rolled his head. Neck glistened, sweaty even on a white Christmas Eve.

Dean didn’t breathe until hypoxia put spots in his vision.

Sam glanced, caught him staring. Same as he always did.

He’d been a real dick to that kid, the last half-year.

Sam pulled a _you’re-a-moron_ face and waved Dean inside.

But, there he still was.

Sam got up; Dean met him at the door. Glitter shimmied up the jambs. Jingle bells, in the distance. Gold light spilled from the cabin and all Dean’s physical pains melted away.

“We just saved Christmas, Sammy.” Overhead, a tiny twig sprouted from the door frame.

“Just saved the world,” Sam said.

“Pft.” Dean watched as waxy leaves unfurled. “We do that shit all the time.” Red ribbon and white berries, like a time-lapse.

Sam huff-laughed.

_All the way in._

“Santa sent us Christmas wishes.” Dean ran a hand up Sam’s breastbone. “Heart’s desires, so he says.” He chin-tipped at the mistletoe. “You think that one’s yours or mine?”

Sam’s eyes followed, and his long swallow made Dean lick his lips.

_Your Christmas wish has always been to be with Sam._

Sam seized him by a shoulder, dragged him across the threshold and slammed the door behind him. Got all up in his space. By a Christmas miracle, the mistletoe ended up inside.

Dean knuckled Sam’s cheek. Thumbed over his lips. “Why’d you come back, Sam?”

Sam scrunched his eyebrows.

“Your woman. You talked to her, I take it.”

Sam bowed his head. Noses so close they brushed when Dean said,

“Fucked her, probably. I would—”

Sam’s lips pressed his, warm and dry. “That’s why.”

Dean craned up, kissed Sam again, and the peppermint hot chocolate on Sam’s lips and the rasp of his fingers on Sam’s cheek washed him away, smashed through him like a tidal wave, sent him spinning ass-over-end, desperate for breath. The door banged in its frame when Sam shoved him against it. Dean double-fisted Sam’s hair and half climbed him. Kissing and grinding. Dean wedged a hand between them and cupped Sam’s crotch, squeezed him. Sam hummed low, buzzed Dean’s chest. Stepped back, far enough to get at Dean’s belt.

“Dude,” Dean panted.

Sam kissed him. Hand down his pants almost broke him.

“Dude, for real. Look around.”

Behind Sam, Rufus’s cabin was transformed. The old couch, outta nowhere, had pulled out to a large, luxurious bed, piled with plush pillows, shimmering sheets, and fuzzy blankets. Only a few candles still flickered in the corners and the fireplace burned low, dim and warm.

“Is this…” Sam’s wide eyes sparkled, dark and mossy pools in the low light.

“Dwarf mojo, I guess.” Dean hooked his fingers in Sam’s belt loops and walked him backward. Sam went willingly, shuffling and kissing until, on their last step, he swept and torqued and pinned Dean’s shoulders clean to the mattress.

“Your wish or mine?”

And Dean bit down on, _Your wish_ is _mine, kid_. He nipped at Sam’s lower lip. Sucked it in and swiped it with his tongue. Sam went liquid, squeezed Dean between his thighs and Dean kicked. Flipped. Sam rolled with it. Wrapped his legs around Dean’s waist, chased Dean’s lips. He bracketed, blanketed Sam. Tangled fingers in his hair and dragged back, mouthed down Sam’s stretched neck. Hard and tender, Dean groaned; his undone fly raked Sam’s closed one.

He pushed up. Sam clung to him. “Hey, take it easy.” He grinned. “Lemme take care of you.” Narrow-eyed, Dean licked his lips. Sam shivered, sank into the covers as Dean opened his overshirt buttons. He feathered down Sam’s sternum, soaked up quaking muscles in his finger-wake. Spread Sam’s lapels. Hesitated, thumbed the bump of Sam’s collarbone where it peeked from his v-neck. Sam arched into him, and Dean slid his arms around, tipped Sam up. Slid his flannel off his wrists and his thin t-shirt over his head. Sam ducked his chin.

“Uh-uh.” Dean hooked, lifted until Sam met his eyes. “Don’t you be getting all shy on me now.”

Sam blessed him with dimples, lip in his teeth. He got Dean by the hem of both shirts—he never did get his coat back—and goosebumps climbed Dean’s spine as Sam stripped him bare. They collided. Sam pawed Dean’s face, kissed him wet and messy while Dean unbuckled, unbuttoned, and unzipped. Sam pulsed against his knuckles, boxers damp already and Dean snaked fingers inside the flap. Teasing. Scratching and tickling. Sam moaned, bucked and cussed him. Dean dropped a kiss right on Sam’s nipple, tongue-flicked. Sam convulsed under him and Dean grinned against his skin.

He kissed Sam’s belly. Licked a ring around his navel. Worked his jeans down. Sam’s cock stood up, glistened, jerked with his heartbeat. Dean’s mouth watered.

“Hey, come on.” He slid to his knees, off the foot of the bed. Landed on a pillow he couldn’t vouch was there before. He dragged Sam’s ass to the edge, petted in between his thighs.

Sam sat up. Abs crunched. Jaws slack and lashes trembling. “Dean—”

Curled fingers, squeezed Sam’s dick at the base. Ran his thumb up the vein. “You wanna come, little brother?”

“Oh, God.” Sam’s head fell back, hips jumped off the bed.

“Dean’s fine,” and he winked. Took Sam in his mouth. Precome spread across his tongue.

Sam keened. Dean had to hold him down, keep his teeth off. Mostly he just mouthed Sam, sucked the head and kiss-licked the sides. He lapped Sam’s sack, tongued under and between his balls. Thrashing. Sam banged his heels on the floor, fists on the mattress. Sweat sprung up in Sam’s creases, and Dean feasted. Went at Sam’s cock like a clit, mixed with a healthy helping of what Dean wished girls would do. Sam mumbled filth and nonsense— _Dean_ and _God_ and sappy things Dean didn’t try to parse.

He got Sam halfway down comfortably. Two-thirds if he choked himself. But it was enough with the slick spit from his throat and his fist wrapped around Sam’s root. Sam’s cries turned a warning. Dean froze. One heartbeat. _Taste Sam or see him._

Dean stretched up. Took Sam’s dick in one hand, balls in the other. Rubbed, squeezed, and stroked. Talked shit. “Never shoulda waited this long, been an idiot. Look at you. Fuck, Sammy, knew you’d be hot like—”

 _Sammy_ did him in. Dean stared as Sam exploded up his chest. Came a gusher. Chainsaw of a roar. Dean climbed up, straddled. Smeared come around and jacked himself, under ten strokes. Sammy had him so worked up he blanked out when he blew. Next thing he knew they were tangled, nose-to-nose and slightly stuck around the middle.

“We should clean up,” Dean murmured. Finger-combed Sam’s hair.

“No.” Sam pulled him tighter, in defiance of what Dean had thought possible.

“We should at least cover up.” Dean was knees-down hanging off the bed. “It _is_ winter.”

Sam rumbled. Smiled.

They slipped side-by-side between faintly cinnamon-scented sheets. Dean stretched on his back, and, when Sam settled, head on his chest, he dropped an arm around Sam’s shoulders.

“Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

He nestled closer. “G’night, Dean.”

Gray dawn brought the smells of Sam and coffee, sound of a crackling fire in the hearth. Dean shivered. Tugged on the scrap of a corner of blanket Sam had left him. Sweaty, pressed against him, Sam snuffled. He’d kicked three-quarters of the covers to the floor, sprawled over two-thirds of the bed. He rolled into Dean, huge and warm. Flopped his arm across Dean’s chest and kissed his shoulder.

Sam froze.

“We can stay here and cuddle if you want, Margaret, but I think Santa’s been here.” Dean nudged into Sam, felt his tension notch down. “I’m pretty sure I smell steak and eggs.”

And biscuits, and brown gravy, and some kind of spinach and eggwhite nonsense that made Sam’s eyes roll back. Coffee and orange juice, butter and homemade jam. Sam hunched his shoulders, ducked his chin. Dean played deliberately, exaggeratedly cool.

“What do you think’s in that loot pile?” he asked around a mouthful.

“Our hearts’ desires, I guess.” Sam served up one of his soulful, mournful looks.

“Can’t be.” Dean held his gaze. “I got everything I want right here.”

“What…” Sam broke away, shoved a piece of spinach around on his plate. “What did you wish for?”

“Can’t tell you, Sammy; it’ll spoil it.”

“Bullshit.”

Dean shrugged, took way too big a bite of a biscuit and pooched his cheeks. “If you’re worrying you whammied me into blowing you, knock it off.” Crumbs tumbled down his t-shirt. “I’ve been thinking about that for a long time.”

Sam frowned at Dean’s sloppy eating; kid was so easy.

“Seriously. Presents.” Dean popped up, washed down his last bite with coffee and plopped himself on the thick rug next to the Christmas tree.

Sam blinked but followed. Folded his long legs under him, close enough to bump Dean’s knee. He opened his mouth, and the record player squawked to life, B.B. King. Dean burst out laughing. Sam’s face threatened a thunderstorm, but Dean palmed his cheek.

“Pass out presents. You’ll feel better.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“Not if you’re naughty.”

Sam’s mouth fell open. Dean dragged a thumb across his bottom lip. Nodded at their haul.

Wrapped in red and green and silver paper, they found socks and long johns. Books Sam wanted and a pocketknife for Dean. Baby got new tires (Santa stuck a picture in a box) and Sam’s laptop got… some kind of microchip? Dean didn’t know.

“Last one,” Sam handed over what could only be a new coat, from its size and squishiness.

“Awesome,” Dean said.

“No, wait.” Sam crawled all the way under the tree.

Dean wet his lips, watching that back bend, ass sway. “Whatcha got?”

“I don’t…” Sam sat back on his knees. “These are the wishes, aren’t they?” In his hand, two small silver multicolor boxes. Like from a jewelry store.

“Guess we’ll find out.” Dean swallowed.

Sam passed him one. _To: Dean, From: Santa (on behalf of Sam)_ , read the tag. Dean squinted. Sam shared a look with him; they slowly untied their ribbons. Dean took a breath. Inside his prismatic outer box hid a smaller, dark green velvet clamshell.

“Oh.” Sam drew out his ring box. Looked up at Dean, eyes watering. “I-uh…”

Dean’s chest clenched so hard, for a second, he thought his heart was giving out again.

“Dean,” Sam’s eyes flashed, “ _what_ did you _wish_ for?”

“You first.”

Then came the thunderstorm. “I wished, just this once, that you’d believe me.”

“Sammy—”

“I’m here, Dean. I came back, because you’re it for me.” Tears pooled; Sam’s eyes swirled with color. “I only latched onto Amelia because I know. I _know_. Without you, I turn into a monster.”

Dean flinched. Sam wasn’t exactly wrong, but, “Dude, come on, you gotta admit, there’s been… extenuating circ—”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“Okay…” Dean flipped up the velvet top, on a slim circle of silvery metal. “Okay. You wanna know what I wished for?” He reached across, got ahold of Sam’s left hand. Kid was so tense that if Dean would’ve stuck him with a pin, he’d have shot into orbit. “Same thing I wish for every Christmas. To be with you.” He slid the ring over Sam’s fingertip, hesitated. “Your wish or mine, Sammy?”

Sam pushed forward, and Dean felt the metal warm as it seated on Sam’s third finger. “Both?”

 _You and those puppy eyes_. Dean squeezed Sam’s hand. “Both.”

Sam held out Dean’s ring. “As long as you’re with me, I don’t want any other life than this.”

“Sam…”

Santa had told him, _“Trust the wishes.”_

“All the way in,” Sam finished. “Just like we said.”

Dean accepted. His new ring bumped over his knuckles, a flawless fit. He pressed his left palm against Sam’s and laced their fingers, listened to the metal click. He flicked his eyes up. In the rafters, mistletoe.

“Wow, again?” Sam’s smile outshone the morning sun pouring in.

“Well yeah, Sammy, I get to kiss the bride, come on!”

Sam rolled his eyes; Dean caught him by the lips.

“And after that, we get to start our honeymoon.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post here](https://laughablelament.tumblr.com/post/639921379979968512/how-the-winchesters-saved-christmas-and-christmas)


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